


Purgatory of the Psyche

by ElenoftheWays



Series: Nocturne for Violin and Mind in B Flat [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotions, Gen, Haunted by Moriarty's Face, Jim Moriarty in Sherlock's Mind Palace, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock Thinking, Sherlock is a fragile baby giraffe when you're not looking, Sherlock's Mind Palace, The Personal Blog of John H. Watson, coming down from a case, intellectual attraction, self exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenoftheWays/pseuds/ElenoftheWays
Summary: "An inhale masked another sensation to sigh, feeling the shapes and the continuing relentless fermentation in the back of his stomach. It all continued to enter every part of physical perception, something gray and dulling from the simplest observation of a heightened idea of the consulting criminal’s appearance. To blame and guilt the transport for the judgment of something as simple as a chemical minefield was pointless, but this too was in hindsight."





	

“It’s just a dog, Henry! It’s nothing more than an ordinary dog!”

“Oh my God!”

“Oh Christ!” 

Red glowing eyes charged for them with its mouth opened, bared teeth abnormally large for what was described as a hound. Its movements were calculated, but its behavior from the neck up was entirely volatile. Perhaps the heart rate had a quicker palpitation than usual, a floating statusbar almost tickling his vision orange against a blue background tracking the sudden rhythm. No, not right, a quick inhale decided. Those eyes continued its glare, both in shine and violence, focused on no particular person yet the party of two, yes, just two, were affected. What was there to do? Killing an animal near government ground had to be a felony of some sort (logistical, thank God for Mycroft). How does one stop a situation like this?

The “ordinary dog” continued in what John possibly perceived as otherworldly, moving further down the hill. Growls became the new silence, nothing more rustling other than a heartbeat that just proved to be confused. Shouldn’t this visage eventually evaporate? Henry… was Henry still alive if not from collapsing from sheer panic? Twitching towards his client’s direction, something far sharper than Mr. Knight’s panic breathed. It took every ounce of his body to keep from jumping at the sudden second of this unnatural sound. Nothing more but sharply acute stimuli feeding into fearful nerves and neurons, he had to quickly believe for himself, but the transport was the last thing that needed to be thought of, twirling around and finding a dark figure nearing them.

Ah, at last! An actual person to blame this all on! But in running up to who could only be the culprit (technically he wasn’t wrong) and ripping off the newer fangled breathing mask, the lifting visor only revealed those black eyes and that maniacal grin smiling directly at him. James Moriarty. James Moriarty sans ridiculous ring tones and simply evil with exaggerated pointy teeth highlighted by the now shaking torch in his hand.

“Heart rate too fast to be cataloged” the automated voice began in his mind, the orange of the status bar flickering far quicker than before. “No!” immediately shot right out of his throat far more distracted by that face in front of him than denying bodily emotion. That was not right, but at this moment, how could anyone not be consumed by the relentless grin, blending in with torch and shadow in a similar hound-like rage. Eyes quickly closed, almost submitting to the heavily coursing veins.

Focus.

Not Him.

Emotions.

Not Him.

You are better than this.

“Not you!” The mind barely perceived the hands that immediately shot out, gripping coat lapels or did touch really perceive the texture of said lapels? Fabric choice would be a dead giveaway, but breath synchronized to the heavier heartbeat, his mind trapped between two different realms. Mind and emotion. God, not now, not right now! Even still that face continued to leer at him. Moriarty, practically the Godfather of Crime, or something like that, was right in front of him no different than the “hound” pursuing Henry Knight. “Moriarty”’s face sneered yet that mouth continued a snarling grin, too much like that pursuing dog shifting those features every which way like the maniac that he is. But within this shift, no, this was definitely not Moriarty. With little time to summon emotion into submission, the simple grip of a coat and a headbutt to a forehead, not Moriarty, there were the stunned eyes of Bob Frankland complete with a hand over his mouth.

“You alright?” three syllables suddenly pounded through the quiet train car. Steepled fingertips almost collapsed from their usual spot on his chin, clearly not filing new information into their respective places within his mind palace. Who even knew how his mind circled its way back to that tiny blip of judgment? But that face was a difficult one to shake off, especially in a frantic circumstance surrounded by the so-called haunted Dartmoor moors, around heightened emotion and Henry Knight’s blind terror. A hand dropped to a shaking thigh, realizing the amiss John observed.

“Hmm” thankfully came out instead, that manic grin and the deadened pupils turning into its own chemically induced mist, hovering over his body by a mere inch. It tingled and traced circles above skin and curls, the very motions curdling sickness in his stomach. None of this felt right and this coming from someone who had to practically chant obscenities to his nervous system the night before! An exhale masked a sigh, looking out across the dull landscape surrounding the GWR, town signs passing by, Bray, Dourney, Slough.

It was almost fifteen minutes from his original attempt at words, but all he could muster was “just ready to get out of this damned car.” He wasn’t entirely wrong, half expecting some comment out of the oppositely sitting John that “you are as bad as a five year old on a family vacation drive” or something to that effect. 40 minutes. His body could sleep, but once giving into that submission, it would be near impossible for anyone to wake him up. So staying awake now was the only option. 40 minutes. Soon he could sleep for a solid 48 hours and be back to his regularly scheduled boredom by the day after tomorrow.

An inhale masked another sensation to sigh, feeling the shapes and the continuing relentless fermentation in the back of his stomach. It all continued to enter every part of physical perception, something gray and dulling from the simplest observation of a heightened idea of the consulting criminal’s appearance. To blame and guilt the transport for the judgment of something as simple as a chemical minefield was pointless, but this too was in hindsight. How were any of them to know they were stepping on pressure pads until the appearance of the real murderer? The amygdala began to return to its usual hypersensitive normalcy, the HCT purifying all of its cortisol*, but something still shivered in between courses of relieved hormones. Coming down from this kind of high never did feel good, proving once more the body would always be weaker than the mind, until back in 221B among his things, his bed, his… Billy, a nonverbal validating reminder of himself that did not begin and end with a “that was brilliant.” “Brilliant” was meant to happen and stay in the field, like what Las Vegas was to many people.

Exhausted eyelids fluttered at the sudden sound of rustling newspaper, darting to the image of John sitting across from him immersed within the pages of The Guardian.

 

Thursday, March 18 2010, 8:30 pm

 “The Hound of Baskerville” (“No, Sherlock, I’m not going to capitalize the bloody acronym!”) was a definite 8. Yes, most definitely an 8, adding up to a large quantity of lo mein and dumplings along with that blessed 48 hours of a pure blacked out slumber. Everything had finally faded back to the closest thing to normalcy, the progressively slowing dullness of the once taut nerves, the challenged cortisol now becoming nothing more but a metabolic glucose, even neurons felt as if they shrunk from their once vivid exercise. The idea of a cigarette, just one cigarette, sounded absolutely magnificent if only to soften the official landing that injected gun shots into the wall.

But something still felt wrong.

It began to burn slowly, these undulations just so further away from his body teasing him, reminding him that Moriarty was out there plotting his downfall. This master criminal would be very complimented if he was to learn he was officially within his mind, something that burned a guttural sulfuric breath that exhaled sensations across his body, hanging not only over shoulders but the crown of curly hair, draping down arms, pooling at ankles. But perhaps this was a hell to bear in claiming victory over his enemy, a preparation body and perception had to undertake in order to go to this new depth. A systematic imminence. With the case finally ended and canonized on John’s blog, it should have been nothing more but a formula of heightened perception against a chemical minefield. Stimulating gas playing upon his contempt for James Moriarty. That should have been all it was.

Whatever “it” was, it continued to hover.

Moriarty continued to win as long as these sensations continued.

He needed a cigarette on a deeper level than he did walking into this previous case.

A tingle passed through that half inch shooting up out of his chair, standing far too quickly. That dulled hovering Moriarty continued to hang above him. “Hmm” hummed right out of the oppositely sitting John, reliable John, always ready for the attack John. No, this was a solo mission, he, alone, had to undertake. There was no use in trying to explain how his mind worked to the man who specialized in the more physical aspects of health. Doctor Watson had an idea with the stunted social skills, the mind palace, the eating and sleeping habits, but when it came to the unexplained inconclusive thoughts that came primarily from the intuitive and nervous systems, it was a whole different thing. Different personality types breed different abilities of perception and cogitation, something of physical health and yet from the mind all at the same time.

“You’re, ah, hovering again.” That natural watery click between wry syllables sounded sharper than usual. John had been looking at him as he looked down to that face escaping back towards the glowing recesses of a laptop. How long had he been standing exactly there, eyes focused directly in front of him, defending himself to himself? A reciprocating “hmm” buzzed right out of a reverberating throat before walking towards his bedroom. “Uh, where are you going?”

“Sleep.”

“What, really?”

“Shut up, John.”

The doctor chuckled behind him, but before his door began to close, a beginning “you know, Sherlock, I’m worri-” was immediately swallowed by the gentle slam. Of course John was worried, especially in these rare instances, that was his more socially “acceptable” and perceptible skills at play although stunted by the reemergence of his taste for war and yet a fading PTSD all at the same time, the very thing that fascinated him right up into roommate status. His room was dark, turning on the lamp which sat on his bedside table.

Why was he in his bedroom at such an ungodly hour as 8:30? Neither exhausted or particularly alert, this uncertainty practically itched not wanting to sit or lay on his beige duvet or even pace the floor, mirroring John’s old sleeping habits. But even patrolling the perimeter of his room would possibly sound suspicious to a worried doctor who could very well be standing outside his door, so he remained in his closed doorway. It itched. That hovering something continued to itch above yet so close to skin, those sulfuric vapors slowly waltzing through nasal pages, throat, and strangely the pit of the stomach all at the same time.

Of course Moriarty would have found his way into his consciousness somewhere, a natural belief in justice against anyone who insured violence and havoc on everyday civilians. Of course Moriarty would have expected to wiggle his way into his mind, but never knowing about this momentary blip on the dark moors of Devon. He would have loved it, perhaps elaborately clapping with a wide and far more amused smile than his apparition. “Oh Sherlock, now that’s a Christmas present, I love it! Thank you, it’s a beautiful compliment.” At least in the quiet of his bedroom, a loud huff counteracted and exhaled Moriarty’s voice out of his body. Yes, the voice escaped, but the rest of him, existence and games against his deduction and ridiculous ring tones, remained.

Why couldn’t this strange attack, conjured from consciousness and not necessarily from panic or anxiety, just happen during John’s office hours? It was all he asked. It was rather disappointing to be like other people in the gratuity of a nightly lethargy, but within an usually erratic sleeping pattern, he was perfectly sated. Another huff breathed a little more petulant than before, dropping his head back, eyelids closing. There was a diseased foot in the refrigerator that could use studying or a packet of crushed tuff* someone from Italy sent him that John almost confiscated believing it something else. John was able to keep busy contending with the image of those flaring red eyes, something based out of his own individual fear, that same fear he himself played on. His, however, was very much a sick and terrifying reality complete with innocent people getting hurt, but there was no point in comparing individual hells. It was bad enough there was always a loose commentary to the contrary on John’s blog.

He had forgotten the indentation that stamped itself against his stomach at the latest post on everything at Baskerville. “And then Sherlock did one of the most human things I think I’ve ever seen him do […] Maybe the fear and doubt he’d felt, and maybe his experiences with Irene Adler, had humanised him?”* It punched that area of the solar plexus all over again, the impact firm enough in submitting to that beige duvet.

It was easier to read through John’s description of his personality, being presumed on the day John was introduced to 221B as “certainly arrogant and really quite rude […] He might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming.”* John was allowed to think whatever he wanted and most days, he found the public characterization to be quite amusing. But it was one thing to describe his temperament than what had been disclosed in the past two blog posts. It was far too personal. What would John take into his unofficial dissection of his character if he knew more about his past? How presumption of his intelligence often left an adolescent William Holmes to be mindlessly immobile for at least five minutes even in public? How it seemed since he turned 16, whether from hormones or from personal experience, it seemed as if everyone around him was slowly fragmenting him apart? But defensiveness was trivial. After two years worth of blog posts, some romanticizing his individuality and some not, it became easier to put a barrier between what radiated in the spaces between John’s words. It barely affected him now, but that old emotional wound began to widen from the impact against his stomach. Someone close was fragmenting him again and the “great Sherlock Holmes” was indeed emotional. So the mere heightened visage of Moriarty just had to conjure this irritation up. What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette! A sigh wracked his ribs.

Now that he had finally sat down, the body neither wanted to lay back or entirely sit upwards. Lost between extents, polars, this was what rehab and Mycroft’s “boot camp” would have insisted the emotion as an addiction at its purest, the waiting period between cases or the next endorphin rush. But this felt different, monstrously different, Moriarty-different. That hovering conjuring up every emotion he was indeed capable of feeling, at least within the confines of his bedroom. An exhale blew out a little less petulant, standing up once more far too quickly and walking to the window that overlooked all of Baker Street. Somewhere out there sat the consulting criminal, continuing his dirty work and no one else could take him down other than himself. The reportedly “great Sherlock Holmes” printed by John Watson, the arrogant, the sometimes fearful and doubtful yet charming Sherlock Holmes. What of the friend John had when they sat in their respective chairs sipping a good scotch?

It wasn’t as if he was opposed to having a blogger, it was quite interesting to have the highly rated cases written up and quite amusing when John attempted to explain him. Perhaps it was more a question of mood, but the last few more dominant cases still wrecked havoc on something beyond comprehension. To have this solution mixed with that hovering sense of sickness made him feel like nothing more but a frustrated five year old angry with his best friend simply for feeling emotion out of his control. There was no use in being embittered but that certainly did not help with this purgatory of the psyche. It was merely the sensationalism of modern journalism and allowing, enabling an anger time bomb that was Captain John Watson. This could end very badly. Moriarty would sooner have him killed before journalism would have a go at him.

So perhaps he did “show[…] Henry what was real and what wasn’t” in making his client look at the real dog’s carcass, at least he had the luxury. With Redbeard, there was never the indulgence of a body, just one more erected grave marker at the old family home and a restless feeling that itched above his 10 year old body. Retrospective compassion in the most innocent act of reaching an arm out steadying his client, forcing him to look at a visage that haunted him for most of his life. He knew what that felt like. But clarifying this on an emotional level was just as fruitless as getting emotional over another person’s attempt to psychoanalyze him, humanizing him now towards an audience. He knew himself, the scrutiny against his emotional repression, the intelligence, this growing infamy. He did know John well enough that more discreet details would never enter “The Personal Blog of John H. Watson,” but there still was the thought.

Temples swayed finding himself sitting down on his bed all over again, folded hands and fingertips habitually taking their natural pose over his mouth. The moment was taken in all over again, the sulfuric sickness not as thick as before, wandering down a route where John existed. The more he isolated himself, the more Moriarty took hold and that half inch hovered. A more enigmatic and cerebral extent, divisions between the mind and body. Nerves. Simply nothing more than the decline into the mundane everyday. Eyes closed and fingertips dropped against blankets. Was the humanizing of an emotionally repressive man really so interesting to a 21st Century audience? He almost wished John could write a little less personal, at least when it came to this character of “Sherlock Holmes.” Build up and romanticize the case, John, not me! I’m not one of your impetuous reality stars!

Thankfully, most of the Irene Adler case was not and could not have been publicized, but somehow his blogger managed to squeeze in some characterization, what seemed to be “his experience with Irene Adler” and presuming his emotions as “isn’t fine.”* “His experience with Irene Adler” was the exact testament as to why John was the only friend he had. Granted, “The Woman” and himself used each other as copiously as much as a cat and mouse had, in fact, it was quite invigorating squeezing through her innuendo, her carnal persuasion, and looking at that remarkable intelligence, the game practically breathing down of every cerebral route. That particular rewarding relief still breathed down his neck, thankful to have solved her pass code and saving her, placing “The Woman” in Witness Protection. “His experience with Irene Adler” was exactly what it was, an experience, even in its public anonymity towards a popular perception that would believe less of an alternative connection between a man and a woman.

Perhaps “fine with it” was simply easier than saying, “John, Irene Adler was a fascinating and intelligent woman, do you know how difficult it is to find any woman really that formidable?” Perhaps “print whatever you want, John” than “do you really believe printing a ludicrous statement of my humanity and so-called physical attraction would somehow heighten itself to a state of delusional romance you so avidly presume in every single blog post you write?”

This was the culture John Watson lived within, the celebrity and reality star-obsessed sexual connection and disconnect of the 21st Century. At least the technology and science was top notch. This man, however, sitting on his bed still softly huffing like that frustrated five year old, did not in the pursuit of his own rhythm, only to be sucked in by that usual perceptive disappointment. John did well flexing between the two worlds, often finding himself just waiting for the day his slowly growing deduction skills would impress himself a little more than usual.

The side of the mouth quirked in a gentle flex, wondering if that day would ever come but John showed improvement along with his ever doctorly sympathy. Of course his mind would slowly come down to the man John simply was, never wanting to especially change him but wishing empathy came a little more naturally. Judging him for not eating, for the past drug use was especially annoying (well-meaning within his culture) and perhaps even frightened him a little to ever disclose more personal information about himself. Funny how after two years he knew more about the doctor than the doctor ever knew about him. Perhaps it was better this way, but at least the probing of a more carnal personal life was finally put behind them at the simple insistence of being “married to the work.” Hopefully since that lung constricting night, his stance was perhaps more cemented in John’s brain, at least until last year, the very phrase dropping his head against his bed, creating an equator down the exact middle.

Hands wiped across cheekbones, the very sharp angle bringing that woman’s voice to his mind all over again. “Look at those cheekbones, I could cut myself slapping that face.” What would have happened if he threw his “married to the work” status into her heavily made up face which obviously compensated for the clue to the safe’s combination? A quirk riddled lips all over again. Now that was brilliant, at least once looking into her face for the rest of the interaction. “The Woman” certainly had the wit and intelligence, no one but her could manipulate another person’s sexual deviance into a power game and doing it in a coolly calculated way that she had. Her past profession was well suited for her intelligence, her effortless influence, her natural distrust before those pupils widened and the heartbeat raced underneath fingertips.

Thankfully, he did not become victim of what could be considered seduction to the human race, but only for the ravishing interest in what was exchanged between minds. The release of chemicals, invigorated by control or assumption, assertion or confidence. It was a fine exercise. This was what intellectual attraction felt like, or so he had to believe, and it was refreshing. Of course “The Woman” just had to be someone of this century to mix that with the attraction of the body. It seemed everything around him lately begged for the physicality within flesh: the presence that would defeat that half inch and Moriarty, a firmer friendship with John, but within the moment, the Buddhist _sati_ ,* there also existed that overwhelming sickness of that half inch and every single moment of his more personal decisions laying in a vague ambiguity dressed up against a Times New Roman font. This was why retreating into the mind, the ever building loci method* within him kindly balanced both extents, a type of intellectual meditation. It kept him as calm as it could even with more environmental factors trickling in, only there did that half inch not take hold of the atmosphere surrounding him. There was a time to be fractious and another to be swept up in this moment, this century, even within all of its carnal insistence.

But John kept him afloat as much as they had been opposites, yet so alike in pursuit of the game, himself primarily for the immateriality and John the taste of justice. Somehow they complimented one another and then the blog post canonized all events for better or worse, why exactly did he have the need to continue writing it? “That psychotherapist suggested I write about the things that happen to me, so, I’ll write about this” John spoke so matter-of-fact, it all simply was, the certainty far more than the writing exercise the more commending thing so he had been playing along since. Plus, cases came in by way of “The Personal Blog of John H. Watson” and some good 7 to 8’s came from it although a majority came from John’s insistence that a 5 or a 6 was worth it from a more socially acceptable stand point.

That hovering, that purgatory did not feel as intense as before dwelling within the thought of his roommate, his own sociological experiment with a strange hybrid of a PTSD victim yet a victim whose sense of war still remained intact. It practically breathed off of John despite first appearances at St. Bart’s. Perhaps the post trauma was just as psychosomatic as that leg, a lip quirking all over again in the pride that it was him that somewhat cured John of the latter. Yet for all of the good he had done, what exactly within the purest of friendship had the doctor done for him, outside of saving his life? Procuring some kind of figure of that “great Sherlock Holmes” complete with that bloody hat and deductive parlor tricks?

He was huffing like that five year old all over again, but something still hovered intermingling with that Moriarty-like fog. Not entirely discomfort but not entirely convenience, extents struck him all over again. Hands wiping down his face rippled some kind of reactive waterfall of nerves having neither touched anything or moved for the past how many minutes he laid there. This was pathetic. Eyes still remained constant on the paneling of the ceiling, hands dropping on either side of him, the sensation of his trusty blue robe momentarily breathing against the sudden movement. How could he not react to that haze of his arch enemy this way, if he did not then Moriarty would win and if he didn’t, it was just as much as the reported repression that he announced to the public which in turn went on the blog.

It was a curse to feel so intensely, the body finally giving into mobility and walking back to the window that overlooked Baker Street all over again. Hands situated behind his back. For anyone to believe differently, finding the “great Sherlock Holmes” nothing more but a robot incapable of sentiment would be sorely disappointed. Emotions had their place and while a percentage was available for John’s taking sitting in front of the Cross Keys fireplace although exaggerated, the true feeling being shed during Baskerville was that disappointment over the sugar and the more chemically induced horror over Moriarty’s face. John barely noticed the latter. But dread is often best contracted by sincerity from one party to another, having to emphasize that fear towards John in order to be sure of the sugar. Lying or exaggerating directly to his face was the last thing he wanted to do, but that was step 2 in the original plan before a rather computerized looking dog came bounding towards them at the minefield.

Surprisingly guilt was the first emotion to be swept over him on the train ride back to London, knowing both the inevitability of the task and all the reasons why John would come at him hard in the future if he were to lie like that again. He was being slowly sensitized in the ways of more socially appropriate behavior, he would give the doctor that, but the more unattractive anger in his personality was not one to be trifled with too vigorously. After all, John almost left bruises on his neck from that headlock in front of “The Woman”’s flat. It began to linger two inches from him this time, almost retreating the more he thought of the only friend he ever truly had.

The image of Baker Street at night, the linear illusory effects of street lights bookending the multicolored rush of motor cars slowly evaporated to the submission of eyelids, a deep breath being taken in after this tsunami of emotions. Feeling could not be allowed beyond 221B but also beyond 221B was where John certainly could never be entirely safe as long as there were employees and associates of the consulting criminal lurking around. Eyelashes immediately fluttered open to only see Moriarty’s dully lit visage. Shadows painted against his own sunk in cheekbones and the hoods of eyelids widening further and further the more he maniacally laughed. A “no” wanted to shout right out just as much as it had the first time, his heart rate beating much quicker than at Dartmoor but quick enough that no automated voice or leveler could appear within his senses.

The angrier he became at that face, the less frightening it became.

“But then people do get so sentimental about their pets.”

Moriarty couldn’t and wouldn’t touch John as hands rather dutifully straightened out and tightened his robe around him. That hovering practically breathed a half inch difference against skin, vacuuming up every last generated emotional reaction within the nervous system. Even as disappointed as he often got at John telling the world some poor conceived notion about his personal life, he had to believe it was a friend-like agitation, a roommate frustration. But roommates and friends don’t keep blogs about their best friends, do they? At first he half expected whatever John was to him was to be a more casual eye or a more medical forensic second opinion, but now it was growing into something else. Why else would he have tossed and turned during that first sleep after the case with the cabbie, the name Moriarty barely familiar syllables, if not for that excruciating sleepless hour? There was compassion in his choices to not play the violin in order to sleep which he did warn his roommate about, more anatomical relief could have not be a source of temptation either.

Perhaps he was being refined more purposefully in some situations than others. The poor timing in his compliment that the whole Baskerville case was “brilliant” would have otherwise got him a blank look or at least a punch in the face. What would he do without John now? “But then people do get so sentimental about their pets” sung in his ears all over again, eyes closing as if it was the only way to keep Moriarty out of his system. It was useless in either direction. Extents. There was something far more dangerous brewing near and it was not just the growing affection for that ridiculous and occasional passively insulting doctor sitting in the other room. John still barely knew him but all at once not.

How could a man who had saved his life within days of knowing him and was willing to put a dangerous consulting criminal with his own personal sniper in that maneuver be the same one who could emotionally scrutinize him on that blog? Perhaps this was the point of a friend, never really bothering with one before, it was just as layered and textured and messy as was whatever it was he had with Mycroft. A forehead did not perceive the cool window until it dropped against it, a deep sigh promptly wracking through ribs. It was not so different than every other time people used his deductive abilities like a parlor trick, the depths of nerve tissue feeling some kind of emotional assault being done to its shell. Had the process of getting older tightened this dissension? Eyes closed against the smooth coolness hovering against his face, as if the temperature would lessen that Moriarty fog off of his body. But it all was simply an accordance for being mentally stimulated by the game between himself and this freshly sanctioned arch nemesis. It was quite nice.

There was something far more dangerous brewing near and it shared that same thick fog. Moriarty had to be associated to it, but like “The Woman”’s association to the consulting criminal, he wouldn’t see it coming no matter how much Mycroft and the British government were preparing for the worst. This was something he had to do alone, without John even though the further he isolated himself the more Moriarty laid victorious. It was something he had to do alone and John would be just as equally isolated in the halved life he maintained once moving into 221B. The Game couldn’t be replaced for John. It would eat him up left ignored, blossoming deductive skills going back to the banality of shallow observance and John Watson would be yet another veteran victim of PTSD thanks to Operation Enduring Freedom. Something just as cool as the window pane slid down his face, fingers reaching up to his cheek to find small tears glistening against pads. This was different.

The last time that reportedly “great Sherlock Holmes” cried was during that first sleep, unsure if it was from exhaustion or a nervous system downright amazed at this new and extraordinary invention that was friendship with John Watson. He still was uncertain even now, small tears almost defeating that thickness around him. No, Moriarty could not and would not win or would he do anything to John. No one was allowed to experiment on his doctor other than himself, a lip couldn’t help but lift completely at that mental insistence. That man did not save his life for nothing and in a way, it was reciprocated as that bomb vest was immediately ripped off. There was a deep affection for this man despite his faults, sighing once more, and this felt like something far different than that petulant five year old boy frustrated at his best friend.

Deep affection, that was new. What else could it be described as seeing Doctor John H. Watson day in and day out, solving crimes and enjoying the game? But the insistence that Irene Adler meant something more to him and even John lying to his face that was she was in America under witness protection was just as frustrating as feigning a stronger degree of melancholy over the top of this natural protection he had to emulate towards his roommate. He simply saved John from a tornado of emotions he could never be prepared for. But it still was a deep affection within keeping him safe, although nowhere near the love he felt for Redbeard, but it was quite nice to believe himself in a friendship. That was simply enough.

Eyes immediately blinked over the word that came sputtering out of his mind rather negligently. Love. It was not one to come out of his mouth or mind that often, but always one to be used when explaining a motive within a client’s story around the point his brilliance got the best of him. Passion within the moment really could only lead to slight poetics. Even if he never knew what the emotion truly felt like, it could only be likened to the most quiet and casual of moments, a quick nonverbal language flashing between them during a case. No doubt Molly or Mrs. Hudson would explain this crazy “invention” as a more ardent affection as women do, but saving each other in those life and death situations, it was the strangest formula of feeling and yet the most sensical. Like the last time he cried in this room, although through the frustration of sleep, it all came out noiselessly slowly feeling his weight drop to the floor underneath his window.

What was he to do with this new information? Store it in John’s room of his mind palace and just walk away from it until possibly provoked by Moriarty to some capacity? Hands trembled at the very thought of that arch enemy of his using John to his advantage, although the mind remained strangely fascinated with how each wheel and gear would heighten itself to some form of ecstasy under that same anger. Something did lay ahead of him, twisting in its vaporous fiber and behind that curtain existed Moriarty’s face with ridiculous homosexual flirtation and the most harrowing villainy he had ever experienced out of a second person. And he couldn’t save John…

From the simplest act of knuckles rapping against a bedroom door, nerves finally jumped the hardest they ever had, at least for that night. “Sherlock, I’m heading to bed. D’you want me to leave the lights on out here?”

“Wha-whatever pleases you, J-John,” struggled and stuttered to come out agitated even in its pathetic stuttering state, an “uh huh” exhaling on the other side of the door.

“Are you alright in there?”

“I, I’m fine” was all that could be said, leaning up against the wall underneath his window although feeling utterly helpless.

**Author's Note:**

> * =  
> 1\. Corticotropic releasing hormone, http://www.worldofchemicals.com/242/chemistry-articles/chemistry-of-fear.html  
> 2\. Rock made of escaped volcanic ash post volcanic eruption  
> 3\. “The Personal Blog of John H. Watson,” http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/16march  
> 4\. “The Personal Blog of John H. Watson,” http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/29january  
> 5\. The Pali term for mindfulness or awareness  
> 6\. “The Method of Loci” is another term for mind palace  
>   
>   
> **So much thanks to http://arianedevere.livejournal.com for the more canonical dialogue


End file.
